


P.R.O.M

by IEatBooksForTea



Category: Until Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Comedy, F/M, Friendship, Pre-Canon, Prom, Romance, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-07-18 10:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7311064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IEatBooksForTea/pseuds/IEatBooksForTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ashley isn't a fan of Prom. Not when it's advertised as this big, celebratory party exclusively for those at the top of the pecking order. But when Chris and Matt both decide to compete to see who can win Ashley a Prom crown, who will succeed? And will that change her mind about the whole thing? A very short story about Prom, romance and obligatory long words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pretty, Rich and Obscenely Modest

Ashley's sigh drags out like one of those achingly long commercials you can't skip on youtube. Why did they have to strategically slap this _PROM_ poster right in the centre of her locker door? Was her school _really_ trying to torment her? If yes, she'd be dead by the end of the school year.

"You alright there?" The ever familiar, ever neighbourly voice hums beside her. Literally neighbourly – Matt shared the locker right next to hers. "You sound like a dying battery."

"Thanks, Matt," Ashley groans sarcastically, clicking in her locker number before creaking the door open and carefully placing her books in perfect subject order, according to her timetable. She was highly surprised that a mountain of crumpled up _PROM_ posters hadn't come spilling out of the locker – you know, like they do in those cheesy promposals, but with cute things like roses or love notes - to deal the final blow.

_Go to prom_ , they said. _You'll love it_ , they said. _You won't die_ , they said.

The probability of all of the above happening is highly unlikely. Statistically, surrounded by drunk, horny teenagers, there is about a 72% chance she will die. By means of vending machines – and desperate suicide attempts – included. _Reassuring._

"Why do they always have to be so..." Ashley sighs, dejected, and closes her locker door with a pathetic thump, " _Segregational_ about all this?"

"Huh?" Matt's jaw is slack as he stares blankly at her, mouth agape like his locker door. Ashley rolls her eyes, wishing she had a constant supply of dictionaries on hand that she could occasionally knock him out with, and hope that some of the words made an _impact_. Pun intended.

"It's a word," she starts, leaning her back against the cold metal of her locker door, watching the mindless brains and bodies of other students swim aimlessly through the halls. "It means that- oh, whatever." She kicks off the locker with her foot and, like the nobody she is, slips easily into the status quo of student traffic.

Matt sidles up beside her, like the jock _he_ is. He automatically requires shoulder space. The rest of the student food chain knows this, instinctively swivelling around him with at least a metre radius. A sign of luxury. That is non-existent in Ashley's world. With her, the students have no problem shoving and bumping into her. She's like the amoeba – smallest organism in the food chain. With a bizarre ability to mould itself different shapes, much like contorting to society.

Poor guy. That amoeba gets it hard.

"Prom is just a word for a party for all the rich, pretty, popular people," Ashley finally explains, staring ominously at all the ridiculously pink, frilly banners stringing the halls. Like the straggly ends of a ghost. "Pretty, Rich and Obscenely _Modest_." She snorts at her own joke, sarcasm ringing in her tone. It's pretty hard to miss the glaringly obvious posters plastered on every wall – they might as well make them into wallpaper – and the tacky ribbon stringing from every corner of every ceiling. _Modest, my ass._

A few harsh glares are shot her way. She shrivels back. _Sorry_.

She's pretty sure Matt's face is blank again. That's what long words do to him. They're like his kryptonite. Or a stun gun. He just doesn't get them.

"You know," Matt finally says, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other swinging his measly notebook at his side. Matt doesn't come prepared with books. He doesn't _do_ books, "You wouldn't think those things about Prom if you actually went."

Ashley has to tuck herself between two people who are charging towards her, seemingly unaware of her existence. She lets out a breath as soon as they pass.

"You _would_ say that," she mutters. "You're actually popular."

"And you're actually-"

"Hey!" A voice cuts out through crowd, an arm flailing wildly above everyone's heads. "Ashley!"

"Oh, hey!" Ashley perks up immediately, hearing that bright, familiar voice. Swivelling around too quickly, blood (and possibly her breakfast) rushes excitedly up to her head. And an unexpected, uncontrollable grin flourishes on her face - one that's _far_ too big for her head. "Chris!"

"Wait, Ash-" Matt starts but Ashley waves an aimless hand in his direction.

"I'll catch you in class," she says casually over her shoulder, before readjusting her attention back to Chris, who has swindled his way through the crowds. Someone's shoulder knocks his glasses squint on his nose. He cringes and straightens them, his other hand clasping the backpack that is swinging from one shoulder.

"I was hoping I'd catch you," he finally says when he's at a safe enough distance not to get knocked over. Not that it does any good when he has to duck backwards to not get smacked in the face by somebody barrelling past.

_You can catch me anytime_ , Ashley's inner clockwork begins. _You know, preferably straight into your arms. But I'm open for negotiations._

"Yeah?" Ashley masks her excitement, rushing classmates pushing her, against her will – though not uninvited – closer to him. She almost thumps into his chest, Chris stumbling backwards, when a particularly unaware student elbows her in her back. "What about?"

Chris shifts his backpack strap on his shoulder, his eyes flitting around at their audience. Even Ashley finds her eyes streaming back to where Matt had been standing – and who has now been absorbed by the masses and has disappeared.

"Do you want to go," he starts, readjusting his glasses in front of his eyes, flitting a sheepish grin on his face, "Somewhere else?"

And _that_ is where fate crashes in – just like that Miley Cyrus, Wrecking Ball song – and ruins everything. With a resounding _clash_ of the school bell.

And, because her DNA consists of studying, schoolwork and a great class report, Ashley cannot – as much as she wants to – choose _alone time with Chris_ over class. It's physically impossible. She would spontaneously self-combust.

"At lunch!" she splutters, rushing away from Chris and into the crowd, her hand hanging limply in the air – so he can at least still see she exists. That she's still an individual among the masses. "Regular time, regular table!"

"You got it!" Chris calls back, a hopeful voice above the dull drill of the status quo. Though Ashley can't forget the way his tone breaks, like he wishes she'd stayed.

No. She can't think about that. Natural Sciences awaits!


	2. Plans, Rotten Oranges and Meddling

_Okay, Natural Sciences is the worst subject invented._

Ashley slaps her books on the cold, cafeteria table, a collapsed Chris jolting awake.

"Huh?" He grunts, blinking and rubbing his incredibly attractive eyes, framed by those incredibly attractive glasses. Not that Ashley had any time to think about _that_ when she was far too concerned with the bitter injustice she had just been served. "Wha-?"

That was it. She was now going to become a lawyer. She would fight for those unfairly treated, just as she had been. She would fight against injustices, just like these. And she would fight them. And win. _All the time_.

 _'How dare you claim that my client's A-grade homework was only worth a C,'_ She'd pierce the courtroom with one of her entirely professional and case-winning stares. _'I have sufficient evidence to prove that her homework was_ extremely _well researched_ and _relevant. Even Steven_ Hawking _would have been proud!'_

"Ash?" A very small-voiced Chris whimpers, tired eyelids batting, arms crumpled across the crucially bland, circular table.

"Remind me never to become a scientist," Ashley groans, dropping into the seat opposite him with a thump.

 _Remind me to_ definitely _become a lawyer._

"Gotcha," a yawning Chris snaps finger guns at her, making impressive sound effects by clicking his tongue. Though Ashley wouldn't mind him doing _other things_ with his tongue.

"You didn't hear a word I just said, did you?" Ashley tuts, plopping her chin against her arm, leaning down to Chris' level – which is currently horizontal to the table. She peers her eyes at him, fingers playfully batting at his nose.

He scrunches up his face. He's even cute when he looks like a raisin.

"Thanks, Ash," he mutters sarcastically, nose wrinkled as he pulls himself into something that vaguely resembles a sitting position. His lips twitch into an amused smile, hand pushing into his pocket. And there it is. The ambiguous sound of paper crumbling. Okay, if Chris has gum, he better offer her some. Otherwise she's going back to fantasizing about Ryan Gosling. "Actually, I wanted to-"

"Ashley," A cafeteria tray clatters down on the table, directly between the two of them.

Ashley jerks her head up in the owner's direction. She's not used to this kind of brute force when it comes to cafeteria trays.

"Matt," Chris weakly smiles. Or maybe that's him gritting his teeth. Ashley really can't tell. She should brush up on all this body language stuff. She'd need it to become a lawyer.

"Hey," Matt brushes his hand in Chris' direction, eyes barely flashing in his direction. _Ooh. Burn!_ "Listen," Matt says, eyes lit up like those creepy huge, furby eyes. "I've got an idea," He beams, sliding into his seat. "How about-"

"What are _these_?" Ashley cringes, plucking at a rounded lump of a turd-look-a-like plonked on the side Matt's tray. She wretches when the thing, revealed to have _skin_ , feels like a horrid mix of rubber and fur. _Ew!_

"What?" Matt shrugs like it's nothing – he's pretty good at doing that – and casually picks one up, bouncing it in his palm. "It's just an _orange_."

" _That's_ an orange?" Ashley careens away, speaking as if she were an alien, learning all these English words for the first time, just as Chris chimes in with his own commentary; "It's a pretty _beat up_ orange."

"It's not pretty at all," Ashley mutters, flashing Chris a concurring, playful smile. He reciprocates, flashing his signature, fall-for-me grin. _Gladly!_

"Hey," Matt says matter-of-factly. "It was half price. _Besides_ ," he smirks, gripping the orange in his hand, fingers slipping into the rotting flesh. Ashley is _definitely_ going to barf. "It's perfect for hitting Munroe's."

Then he whips up out of his seat and pelts the orange across the room, the rotten fruit colliding with a skull. _Crack!_

"Hey!" Mike crashes up from his seat just as Matt slaps back down into his, face wide with a grin. Ashley slaps hands over her bit-lipped, laughing mouth. They both ignore Chris' awkward, trying-to-avoid-all-confrontation move, leaning back in his creaking chair.

Matt, the baseball star. It all makes _sense_ now. Rotten oranges! The secret! Who knew?

"Curse you, McConaughey!" Mike shouts across the cafeteria, dramatically shaking his fist. Ashley's pretty sure Mike has never actually made the effort to refer to Matt by his actual name. Because it's apparently hilarious to nickname people after slightly-overrated but talented actors. (What? She likes Matthew McConaughey. Not as good as Gosling, though.) Matthew McConaughey now has the privilege to add 'hilarious nickname' to his long list of successful chick-flick roles.

"He'll calm down," Matt laughs under his breath, returning his attention to Ashley. Chris looks like he's about to wipe a ton of sweat from his forehead. He's evidently not ready to be challenged into a fight with Mike Munroe just yet. Give him a speed texting competition any day.

"Anyway," Matt finally breaths, leaning forward excitedly. "Since you're so anti-prom," he grins, his eyes flashing mischievously.

"Ugh," Ashley groans, fed up of hearing that word. "Don't get me started."

Just then, Chris' face flashes with panic, his hand crashing into his crunching pocket. Then, in a second, his hand flies over his shoulder, crumpled paper whipping out of it, landing square inside an unexpectant Jessica's soup.

Ashley quirks her head at him, giving him a look. _What's up with you?_

He shrugs casually. That shrug could solve numerous problems. It could probably cure cancer if they gave him a chance.

The cafeteria erupts with one of Jessica's typical high pitched screeches. " _Prom?_ " She squeals, jumping out of her chair. Ashley snaps her head in Jess' direction, seeing the cheerleader having already unpeeled the soggy, scrunched up paper. " _YES!_ " She screams in joy, jumping on her unexpecting, average-Jock boyfriend – who looks just as surprised as her. Also terrified.

Ashley laughs. Chris panics, rubbing the back of his neck. Matt tuts, shaking his amused head.

"How about," Matt finally outlines for Ashley, fingers tracing invisible plans on the cafeteria table. His eyes – swimming with ideas – connect with hers, "I win you a prom crown?"


	3. Pigs, Ridiculousness and an Overrated Matt

Ashley snorts so loudly, anyone would think she had turned into a pig. If she'd been drinking anything in that moment, it would have come spurting right out of her nose. _Attractive_.

 

“A _prom_ crown?” She shakes her head, almost making the phrase ' _laughing your head off_ ' a reality. “Like _I'd_ ever be prom queen!”

 

“Well,” Matt cringes, readjusting his words. “I wasn't suggesting _that_ exactly-”

 

“Hey,” Chris lurches in, arms firmly thumping on the table. _This means business_. “She could _totally_ be prom queen.”

 

Okay, Chris is disarmingly cute. And his eyes sparkle like those delicious, Ferrero Rocher chocolates (those Italians sure know how to do their chocolate). But it sometimes makes him – despite his 4.0 intelligence – comically _stupid_.

 

“Chris,” Ashley blinks at him, face slack and sarcastic. Chris' eyes snap to her like they're magnetic. “Do you see this face?” She waves her finger around her general facial area. “Does this face look _remotely_ popular?”

 

Chris quirks an eyebrow at her, something suspiciously funny tugging at his lips. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

 

Ashley scoffs, instinctively grabbing a handful of fries from Matt's tray – accompanied by his whine of _“Hey, those are mine!”_ \- before throwing them at Chris. Who swiftly ducks, the fries landing limply on the cold, cafeteria floor. Matt looks as if he's about to mourn them.

 

“It was a rhetorical question,” Ashley pouts, glaring and wrinkling her nose at Chris. _Ha ha. Funny._ “My point is,” she finally breathes. “Nobody's going to vote me if they don't even know I exist.” _Or if I don't even go._

 

That's thing about Ashley. She isn't exactly somebody who _stands out_. Especially when her height is only 5 ft 1 and 3/4. And yes, the three quarters _does_ count.

 

Ashley's just one of those girls who dresses to fit in. Who acts to fit in. Who _blends_ to fit in. Yes, she contributes to that hugely inflated 94% of students across America who just _go along with the crowd._ Trying to stand out is so exhausting. Plus, it's so overrated.

 

A wallflower. Like in that book – which was _so_ much better than the movie (they always are. Just saying.)

 

“But,” Matt finally speaks, tipping his chin on his hand. He looks like he's up to something. Not sure Ashley trusts him, “They know _I_ exist.”

 

_Is he drunk?_

 

The disbelief on Ashley's face – and the amused confusion on Chris' – is enough to make Matt rearrange his words.

 

“I,” he finally says triumphantly, “Could win Prom King.”

 

_Okay, he's definitely drunk._

 

“Not that I care about any of that stuff,” he corrects, acting the whole modest type. _Pfft, as if_. Then he leans forward like he's Lord Sugar, about to offer me a billion dollar job on The Apprentice _._ _You're hired!_ “But I could get you that crown.”

 

I want to slap him across the face with one of his rotten oranges. What the heck?

 

“Hey!” Something finally sparks Chris, his body jolting into position. Determination has suddenly darkened his features. It looks good on him. “ _I_ could do it too.”

 

Ashley stares at him like he's just offered to wear a tutu and prance all the way up to the White House. “What?”

 

“I could win that crown for you,” he finally says, eyes connecting with hers. It's like one of those stares in those Nicholas Sparks movies, where the hero would do just about _anything_ for the heroine. Even if that includes embarrassing himself in front of a whole _school_.

 

 _Where did these guys get their_ alcohol _?_

 

“Are you challenging me?” Matt raises his eyebrows, entertained, at Chris just as a voice shouts across the cafeteria.

 

“Hey! Matt!” One of the baseball players – a guy from Matt's _regular_ table - waves his head across the crowds of unsuspecting heads. “When are you going to get over here?”

 

“Just a sec,” Matt calls back, raising a finger and half climbing out of his seat. Then he swiftly pierces his gaze at Chris. A challenge. “If you _think_ you're up for it, you have one week.”

 

“One week till what?” Ashley panics, flipping her gaze between the two of them. “Hey, I haven't even agreed to this yet. This isn't a contest! I'm saying no!”

 

“May the best man win,” Chris, ignoring her, grimly smiles. Determination sets his eyes and fear creases his mouth. _What has he gotten himself into._ He sticks his hand out firmly, offering a handshake.

 

“This isn't a presidential _campaign_ , guys!” Ashley whines. _Not like they ever listen to me anyway._ She's the wallflower. Remember?

 

Matt decisively shakes Chris' hand back, “You're on.”

 

And he picks up his tray and weaves his way effortlessly through the crowd to his table of endearing fans.

 

_What just happened?_

 

“Whoa,” a familiar, _Washington_ voice finally cuts in, clattering his tray next to Chris. “What happened _here?_ ”

 

_Josh the mind reader strikes again._

 

“Don't ask,” Chris and Ashley glare at him at the same time. Simultaneously. _Now that takes skill_. Ashley's adding that to the list of reasons why Chris is to _die_ for. Minus the Prom King nonsense.

 

Josh grins – that infectious, all-knowing smile – and finally, smugly, says, “And you _haven't_ banged each other yet?”

 

_Josh._

 

_Shut up._

 


	4. Pokemon, Rum and Obsessive Moms

And so it begins.

Chris' converses scuff along the gravelled sidewalk to an invisible beat. If it starts to rain in this moment, he'll probably break out into a 'Singing in the rain' number right in the middle of the street. Or some video game alternative – probably the Pokemon theme. Thankfully, Ashley will never have to witness that – screechy notes and all. Because the sky is looking particularly perky, no rain clouds in sight. Thank heavens! Her ears are saved!

"You're happy," Ashley peers at him, half dazzled and half betrayed by his entire existence. Okay, so she's _still_ not particularly happy with Chris and Matt agreeing to toy with her like that. Her _mild_ intolerance for prom is practically the foundation for her entire moral compass.

If they broke that, she'd probably end up murdering someone. Most likely, Chris.

Either that, or she'd end up marrying him.

Both options were entirely appealing.

Chris shrugs. Complete with hands in pockets and equipped with one of his signature, goofy grins.

"Tada!" He whips out a crumpled sheet of paper from his backpack. The sheet flutters to the beat of the cars rushing past them. Ashley takes one glance at the paper and she wants to jump in front of those racing cars.

Because on it is a crudely drawn sketch of a poster.

"What do you think?" He asks eagerly, trying to win her over with a gorgeous, sheepish grin. _That's not fair, Chris! That's unlawful use of physical attributes to manipulate. There's probably some law against that._

Ashley blinks once up at him, staring blandly. Though her heart thrums with frustration and passion and thoughts of 'holy-crap-he's-hot'. "Josh drew that, right?"

"Huh?" Chris gawks back, glancing briefly down at the draft, pencilled poster. And the _masterpiece_ (note: sarcasm) of a barely recognisable Chris – glasses and tuft of hair for his fohawk included – wearing one of those Mario crowns and holding up an upside-down calculator. That just happens to be showing the very classy word of 'BOOBIES' in numbers. _Childish trick. Very original, Josh._

The caption reads: LEVEL UP! Vote for the Master! Vote for Chris!

"Yeah," Chris finally says, a confused smile twitching at his lips. "How'd you know?"

Ashley smirks, fighting back a laugh. "There's a penis on your forehead."

Chris' hand whips up to his forehead in a panic - knocking his glasses in the process - as if he could even feel any pen marks there.

Ashley snorts, grinning. "On the _drawing_!" She points at the sketched version of Chris, complete with Josh's signature, penis drawing on his forehead. _A great look. You'll get_ all _the ladies with that._ "Maybe not include _that_ in your final draft?" she snickers, playfully batting at Chris' arm. Not that she approves of the poster in the first place. But... you know.

He cringes, subconsciously leaning into her, before abruptly laughing out loud. Ashley's pretty sure that all the car drivers are staring at them like they're crazed idiots. Not that Ashley would describe the two of them as anything other.

And, just like a pair of crazed idiots, they're both thinking the same thing. ' _Typical Josh_.'

And just like typical Josh, he's left an oh so obvious, oh so inventive note at the bottom of the poster – which an oblivious Chris has yet to notice. Which Ashley will not mention. Under _any_ circumstances. Even if someone offered a million chocolate bars... okay, maybe two million would do it.

_'To Ashley,'_ it reads. Ashley can already hear Josh's pretentious, smug voice in her ear. Like one of those flashbacks from movies. Pleasant. _'The penis drawing is not scaled to size. I assure you Chris' is much bigger.'_ And to finish it off, it's complete with a winky face. Classy.

_How does he even know that?_

Ashley doesn't even want to know.

Instinctively, Ashley's heels drag to a stop, finding herself in front of her house. She grimaces. She's tempted to keep walking.

Would Chris mind if she stayed at his? Ashley toys with excuses. _"I forgot my key." "Our shower's broken." "I'm desperately in love with you that I want to smell your bed and use your toothbrush and dress your monkeys-."_

Whoa. Smooth.

Instead, a very _sensible_ and possibly _insane_ Ashley veers – as she always does, as the status quo always does – towards her garden gate. And into normality. Where it's desperately _boring._

"See you later, Ash!" Chris calls out behind her, like he always knows to do. His hand tugs at his backpack strap as a smile tugs at his lips. Ashley casts her eyes back at him, tempted to jump into his arms and beg for him to take her away. And them beg him to make out with her.

Not that she's forgiven him yet.

But, instead, she waves her hand, grabbing the air for a little bit of him. The oxygen can't have _all_ of him. Because, despite _her_ normality, at least a little bit Chris and a pinch of penis drawing drama isn't boring.

At least he won't make her go insane.

Even though prom might.

* * *

"I'm home," Ashley calls out limply into the skeleton house, swinging her satchel from her shoulder and dropping it on the hall floor. She bats away at a stray cobweb hanging from the front doorframe, cringing. This house has hated her ever since she moved into it. Which equates to exactly her _entire life_.

"Ashley," her mother's high pitched, overbearing voice cackles from the kitchen. A voice so high, only dogs can hear it. It also tends to give Ashley constant migraines.

Yay.

"What is it, Mom?" Ashley drags herself to the kitchen. A snail could go faster than her. Even the idea of ridiculous, should-not-even-exist Prom King elections makes Ashley want to shut down. Her absolute unwillingness to deal with her alcoholic Mom doesn't help much either. "Did you hit on the postman again?"

"Don't be so rude," she scoffs, her voice echoing harshly through the hallway. Then, quicker like any of her other drunk reactions, she completely switches. "So," excitement hiccups in her words. "Has anyone asked you yet?"

Ashley sighs. Not this again.

That was one thing - among many, many others - that Ashley didn't like about her mom. She was _obsessed_ with prom. She scoured those cliche, prom dress websites and searched predictable promposals on the Internet and watched _every_ prom movie ever invented. Even the creepy, seemingly unrelated ones.

She had a prom complex.

It had all apparently started at her own prom. Where she _conveniently_ fell in love with, yep, you guessed it; Ashley's Dad. Yeah, just like that scene from Back to the Future. Except in this version, they skipped the cutesy stuff and just went to bed straight away to have sex. _Way to be great role model, Mom._

And it was on that night of amateur, unprotected sex that they conceived a _wonderful_ little girl who'd have to experience the torture of them _every single day._

Until _He_ decided to up and leave them, Ashley a tender age of 16. And her mom an emotional, alcoholic mess. What fun!

"No, Mom," Ashley sighs, finally pulling herself to the kitchen doorway. "I told you. I'm not going to prom."

And then Ashley sees her mom's face. And this is why she's convinced this house is cursed.

Because her mom is hanging limply from the kitchen counter, make-up smeared like blood down her face with her signature wine glass in hand. And a sea of tacky, satin, prom dresses swimming around her ankles.

Ashley grimaces. She's very tempted to run to the toilet and throw up. It's a very real possibility. _Where did she get all those in first place?_

"You _have_ to go!" Her mom hiccups, dragging herself from the kitchen counter and almost falling flat on her face. At least that's one thing prom dresses are good at – they're a convenient cushion. Gymnastics could probably use them as mattresses. _"_ I got all these dresses for you to try _on!_ "

"Mom," Ashley pleads, picking her way through the greasy dresses and holding on to her Mom's arm before she breaks her neck or something.

And Ashley can see it. Her Mom is drowning herself in prom. She's distracting herself by living her life again through Ashley.

Because something has happened. Like it always does.

"He called again, didn't he?" Ashley finally asks. The quietest she's ever been. She's not in the mood for jokes.

Because Ashley really doesn't hate her mom. She hates what her dad has made her.

Her mom finally, limply, nods.

_Damn you, heart. Why do you make me do this?_

Ashley sighs, giving in. She's been doing that a _lot_ lately. Then, reluctantly, she says, "Okay. I'll try on _one_ dress. Just _one_." _Not that I'm promising anything._

_Just this once. To distract you. To save you._

Her Mom's eyes light up and she quivers with joy – just like a little puppy. And she dives for the mess of dresses around their feet. "Ooh! I know the perfect one!"


	5. Pidgeys, Rampage and an Outlandish Mike

"It was like -," Ashley cringes mid sentence, making an incredibly unappealing and _very_ unladylike face. The kind that your parents' cameras catch just as you're about to sneeze. And then they post the photo on facebook. And tag you. _Scarred for life_."Like wearing the ripped skin of a rainbow unicorn that had just _crashed_ into a _Skittles_ factory. On steroids."

She convulses. The scratchy, slimy fabric of the prom dress still ghosts along her skin. She shivers, trying to itch the feeling away. There was a _reason_ Ashley had stopped letting her Mom choosing clothing for her as soon as she'd turned nine.

 _Clack!_ The gum snaps in the assistant librarian's mouth as he chews down on it again. And again. _Clack clack clack._ To the blasting beat of the old school Nirvana pounding through his electric blue headphones. Boom boom boom. _Clack clack clack._

Ashley sighs bitterly, thumbs biting into the plastic cover of the book she's holding. _Lovely._

He slides further into his leather, swivel chair – _squeaak –_ and throws his dirty, conversed feet onto the counter. Completely oblivious to her existence.

"Well," Ashley exhales, reaching for the date stamp and stamping her own library card. _Somebody should pay me for this._ "I'll just take _this_ then," she slides away from him, the book in hand and her ego very much falling apart. Like life had just picked up a cheese grater and shredded the hell out of it. Not that she'd had much of an ego to begin with.

You'd think you'd have to be Harry Potter with a cloak passed down from his father to be invisible in a library. Turns out you can be an Ashley too.

"I thought I'd find you here," a rumble of a voice smiles beside her ear.

Ashley yelps, jerking away sharply, her book flying victoriously out of her palms. It does that triumphant, flapping thing with its pages before cracking its spine against the floor.

She glares at it in shock. And then at her palms, as if they just killed somebody.

Okay, nobody attacks her books. Nobody hurts books in general. It's a basic literature _right_. She's pretty sure it's in the United States of America's Constitution.

Ashley seethes. The only thing that will stop her from slapping _this_ attacker is if he has a conveniently styled blonde faux hawk, stylish back rimmed glasses and an impossibly handsome grin.

Ashley snaps her eyes to him.

Nope. Just Matt.

"Ow," Matt winces as her palm connects with his cheek, just as he ducks to pick up the fallen book. "What was that for?"

"Oh, you know," Ashley stares at him pointedly. "Just protecting the endangered species of the _undamaged book_." _You go girl! Kill 'em with sarcasm!_

Matt, still crouched on the floor, just narrows his eyes up at her, amused, as if she's some undiscovered creature – probably some tiny insect or one of those squidgy, fanged, deep sea creatures that no one wants to look at – that he's about to uncover. And she can't tell if he wants to catch her and squish her under a microscope for scientific testing. Or set up a 'SAVE THE ASHLEY' campaign, complete with posters, website and incredibly overused, dare-you-not-to-cry, TV ads.

Either way, both options sound terribly unappealing. Not to mention _uncomfortable_. Netflix and popcorn any day, please.

"You're weird," he simply chuckles, picking up the book and bouncing it in his palm as he straightens his legs to tower over her again. _Stop showing off. With great six foot one million inches comes great responsibilities. Like reaching the super cheap and super tasty chocolate from the top shelf at a supermarket._

"Thanks. I try," Ashley sarcastically mutters under her breath as Matt's eyes skim the obviously-foreign-to-him book cover and Ashley tries to determine whether it would be socially acceptable to slap him with it.

It's not that she hates Matt. He's kind of impossible to hate – although being irritated by him is highly plausible. He has this effortless way of making her feel acknowledged and isolated at the same time. Like the way he always purposefully looks at people when they're talking – that there's no doubt he's fully committed to listening to what they have to say. _Cough cough._ Hint hint Mr. Librarian Assistant.

But that's the thing. Everybody likes him. He's _popular_. It kind of comes with the jock thing.

And Ashley? She's really just... not.

It's never more obvious than when she's with him. The invisible 5ft 1 and ¾ girl.

"Top tips," Matt mouths out the title slowly like he's never seen a book before. He's probably never even seen a library before. _'So_ this _is what a library looks like!'_ "On how to deal with prom."

He glances up at her then, trying not-very-hard to stop himself from laughing. And then he does that irritating quirk thing with his eyebrow. A question in itself.

"Yeah, well..." Ashley stumbles over her words – embarrassment running her sarcasm dry – before settling with just snatching the book out of his hands and pushing past him.

Matt's feet spark into a skip as he catches up to fall in step with her. "Does this mean," his eyes sparkle teasingly as Ashley steps out into the school corridor and the swell of students, "You're _actually_ going to go to prom?"

Ashley scoffs. "No," she glares at him, catching that borderline-arrogant look on his face when he think he's achieved something. "Don't look so smug. I'm just borrowing it to," she groans unenthusiastically, rolling her eyes as students tumble past her to reach their lockers, " _Prepare_ myself."

And just like that, like fate – or it's far more evil cousin – had planned it, the perfect exhibit of what Ashley was dreading stumbles right across their path.

Emily, who could easily have steam billowing out of her ears any second now, tugs on a smouldering Mike's arm. He might as well be auditioning for an Old Spice commercial with the way he's casually leaning against his locker. You know, minus the shirtlessness.

Ashley grimaces. _Please. No one wants to see that._

Though judging by the crowd this is gathering, mainly consisting of frothing, under aged girls, that might not _entirely_ be true.

_Ew._

Emily, that smug look tugging at her lips – the one she always gets when she _knows_ she's got the most popular guy in school – brushes away all eyes pinned on her and bluntly says, "Let's go to Prom, dumbass."

Ashley's pretty sure she just audibly groaned. If the sound wasn't clue enough, the rude looks shooting in her direction is a pretty clear sign. Ashley smiles sheepishly, bowing away.

Matt shifts beside her. Ashley can't tell if it's a reaction to _her_ or to the couple in front of them.

 _Promposals._ They're literally popping up everywhere like Pidgeys on Pokemon Go. If Ashley hears another high pitched shriek along these school corridors, she might have to admit herself to A&E for a burst eardrum.

"Oh. Em. _Geeeee_!" Mike suddenly squeals, fanning himself like a crazed, hyper schoolgirl. Mike is evidently _acutely_ aware of his audience. "I thought you'd never ask!"

Okay. She blinks. That was a shriek Ashley _wasn't_ expecting.

Matt groans beside her. If she hadn't looked at his face then and seen the amused smile on it, she would have thought Matt had some kind of vendetta against the _famous_ Michael Munroe.

Mike grunts as Emily elbows him in the stomach. "Alright, alright," he breathes, winded, holding his stomach dramatically. "Whatever you say."

But before Ashley can hear Emily's response – not that she's even bothered – Matt suddenly spins in front of her and catches her by the forearms. Something has spurred him on like a mento dropped into coca-cola.

"Ash," he looks into her with those attentive eyes of his. He's crowded by people, swelling congregations blurred behind him. But she can't help but look back at him.

She makes a face. She wants to bat him away, whether by force or with sarcasm. _'Hey. You're blocking my view of Mike's ass'_.But there's something programmed about Matt's face which makes it really hard to hurt him.

And even if she wanted to, she can't. When Matt wants her attention, he somehow always knows how to get it. Seriously, who tipped him off? She's guessing the Secret Services.

What? She has connections.

Matt looks at her. Ashley grimaces back, screwing up her nose. His fingers grip onto her arms just a little bit tighter and he says, like he's the most confident person in the world, "Go to prom with me."


	6. Preliminary Rap and Offensive Merriment

“And you said no,” Sam repeats candidly, complete with raised eyebrows and amused smirk. It's almost like she didn't expect anything less.

 

“Shh,” Ashley hushes sharply. She darts her eyes around, jolting between mulling, cluttered students, waiting for the head of her mom to pop up and shriek like a banshee. “She'll _hear_ you,” Ashley gasps, dramatically snapping her stare towards her companions, eyes wide and warning. Like one of those zoom in frames in a classic, Hollywood movie. Or that dramatic chipmunk video. _Dun dun duuuuuunn!!_ “She has ears _every_ where!”

 

Sam snorts followed by Hannah's spluttering as she almost chokes on her water bottle. _Awkward._ Ashley suddenly wishes she'd prepared herself a bit more for the presence of Hannah. You know, like an oxygen mask or a picture of Mike to calm her down. Ashley's amateur CPR skills are not even nearly ready to be tested.

 

She once did CPR on her childhood hamster.

 

It died.

 

“You said _no_?” Hannah dribbles the words out of her slack mouth. If it isn't for the fact she's still blinking, Ashley would think she had died on the spot.

 

_'We are all gathered here today to remember the late Hannah Washington. She really should have just asked for the good news first.'_

 

Ashley is still convinced Hannah is adopted. If it isn't for the fact that she and Beth look conveniently, accurately similar, Ashley would have already demanded a birth certificate. Not that she has the authority – yet. Lawyer ambitions, remember?

 

Amongst the mess of penis jokes from Josh and stench of _popularity_ from Beth, Hannah's mellow naivety is a breath of fresh air.

 

Though her crush on Mike is a consistent, throbbing annoyance. She might has well have heart shaped irises with _MIKE_ written across them in black ink.

 

“Not exactly,” Ashley flashes Hannah a cringing, comical smile, a mix between a sheepish grin and a grimace. “I kind of just... laughed in his face.”

 

 _Cue the hysterical, I'm-dying-here laughter from Sam._ Totally _not_ offended here.

 

Sam is just one of those people you can tell anything to. Ashley hasn't yet figured out if she's tricking people into spilling their most deepest secrets only for them to be piled up, gathering dust in Sam's cupboard. Obviously to be used later for a top-secret, super-important plan. Probably to turn everyone into vegans.

 

One day, Sam will become one of those middle-aged women that end up with an Agony Aunt column in a sewing magazine. _'Samantha Solves,'_ it'll be called, ' _Solving everything but math.'_

 

“It's not that funny,” Ashley screws up her nose, batting the dying-of-laughter Sam while Hannah fights her own laughter with a look of sympathy sent in Ashley's direction. _Thanks._ _I appreciate the vote of_ con _fidence_. Note: Sarcasm.

 

Before Ashley can plot her revenge on the ever suspicious Sam, her ears prick up – like the revolving satellites of K9 from old school Dr. Who – to the unmistakable pitch of a certain human being Ashley _distinctly_ wouldn't mind making out with. _You know; it wouldn't be unpleasant._

 

Unfortunately, Chris' obviously attractive voice – if Ashley _does_ say so herself – is drowned over by Josh's horrendous attempt at beat-boxing.

 

“Okay,” Sam, among her many other talents, recovers quickly from her laughing fit and eagerly pushes through the crowd of students. “I have _got_ to see this.”

 

And like the follower Ashley always is, she trails behind. Thankfully she's not in it alone this time. Hannah Washington is conveniently a follower too.

 

“Yo, yo!” Chris raps along with Josh's beat as they come into view between the shoulders of fellow audience members. “It's C-Wizzle!”

 

“And DJ Woshi!” Josh pipes in into the mouth of a water bottle, standing on top of a make-shift, cafeteria-bench stage. “In the _house!!_ ”

 

 _What the hell is this?_ Ashley wants to bury herself up and die. Where is Hannah's water bottle when you need it? Ashley could seriously do with choking on it right at this moment.

 

Ashley can feel Hannah tense up beside her. Unlike a completely unfazed Sam, Hannah is obviously extremely embarrassed to be at all associated with a guy who beat boxes in a school cafeteria. _Well, I'm glad he's not_ my _brother._

 

But he might as well have been. Ashley can already feel second hand embarrassment creeping up her neck.

 

She stares, alarmed, at the posters hanging behind the rapping pair. They are complete with the bold caption, 'Chris = 49' and hashtag, '#ChrisForKing'. Didn't Chris get the hint when Ashley almost hit him last time? To be fair, though, Ashley has to admit she appreciate Chris' use of a Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy reference. Nice choice!

 

Whisper: the book is better.

 

“Vote for me! Vote for me!” Chris flails his hands around, attempting to rap along to Josh's spluttering beat-boxing. Laughter ripples across the crowd. Ashley cringes at Chris' attempt at a gang hand sign which he ends up accidentally slapping against his thigh and wincing.

 

Okay. That was cute. Kind of.

 

“Yo!” Josh pitches in. “'Cause he's 43!”

 

And the makeshift beat cuts short as Chris drops his water bottle mic and glares at his best friend. “Bro, that's not even the right number!” before throwing his hand in the direction of the _49_ on the posters.

 

Josh grins sheepishly. “But it rhymed,” he almost whimpers.

 

Just as Matt saunters through the crowd.

 

“What is _this_?” He almost chortles, laughing affectionately at the pair's performance. The crowd hushes around him, fully aware of his royal popularity status. Ashley snorts in his direction, resulting in a pointed, anxious look from Hannah. Ashley flashes her a swift smile. _She doesn't need to know my inner turmoil._ Ashley is still, understandably, mourning over her book.

 

But it's not long before Matt's attention is taken by the make-shift posters. He's like a gold-fish. He has a short attention span. You know, with a small brain. His forehead wrinkles as he stares, confused, at the posters. “Seriously,” he mutters. “What _is_ this?”

 

A tense Chris – matching Hannah's tense shoulders – who has almost lost all of his charisma, mutters a swift, “It's a hitchhiker's joke.”

 

Mike blinks. “I don't get it.”

 

_Of course you don't._

 

“I get it,” Ashley blurts out before she can help herself. Like mechanical dolls, everyone's heads turn to her. Okay, she is not used to this. She's used to people looking past her. Like the wallflower she is. Or was?

 

He smiles affectionately in her direction, pride filling his eyes. Okay, it was all worth it for that smile. _Damn._

 

“Alright,” Matt claps Chris on his shoulder, causing the latter to wince. Ashley doesn't blame him. Matt has some _muscles_... _Not_ that that effects Ashley's opinion of him in _any_ way.

 

Cough.

 

The crowd whistles with an 'ooh' sound. Ashley can even hear Sam join in. She rolls her eyes. This may as well be a movie. Where's Ryan Gosling when you need him?

 

“You're on,” Matt's voice is challenging. He drops his hand from Chris' shoulder, jabbing his thumb in the direction of the window. “Football court in ten.”

 

And then he slinks away. Like he wasn't even there. But of course he was. Because the crowd is suddenly bubbling with whispers of his name.

 

“But-” Chris – no longer the centre of attention – goes limp as his face creases. “I have _math_ in ten!”

 


	7. Power Rangers and Olympic Medals

So, _apparently_ , Matt can stop time. Who knew being popular was a superpower? Maybe I should try it sometime.

I visualise myself as a prim, pink bimbo in awkwardly fitting clothes with my hair back-combed about a thousand times. I grimace.

Then again, maybe not.

The school had practically halted as soon as Matt had spouted the challenge. Even the teachers are going along with it. It's almost like this is a National event. Somebody call the Olympics!

I tuck into the crowd, fitting plainly into the bleachers. As much as I'd rather go to Literature class, the room was far too empty and Sam was far too eager to drag me with the rest of the world. It also helped that she'd teased about Chris. I'd simply glared at her and given in. Obviously.

The bleachers are sticky. I shiver and tuck my fingers around the edges of the cold, metal slab of a seat. And suddenly, this is the biggest regret in my entire life. Because my middle finger collides into the slimy, toffee goo of age old chewing gum.

I retch and yank my hand back, shaking it like a crazed maniac. I'm pretty sure I hit the guy next to me in the shoulder in the process. He glares at me like I just killed his wife and family.

Great job, Ashley.

I cradle the offended hand, whimpering. I will never be able to use this hand the same way again.

I knew there was a reason I don't come here. Ever.

I can hear distant chants of Matt's name across the football field and I can practically feel the testosterone in the air, clinging to my skin like sweat. It makes me wrinkle my nose. Ew. Is this what _man_ smells like? No thank you.

The best thing my father ever gave to me was his X chromosome. _Thanks, Dad!_

Matt, like the Power Ranger he is, marches across the field, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his hands together. Right now, he's chief of the grins. His eyes sparkle with the adrenaline of a challenge and the taste of popularity. His crunching steps of crisp grass are followed by the cheers and whoops of his fellow classmates.

I make a face at him just in time for his eyes to scan the bleachers. And land directly on me. He grins, winking and making a face back. No. Go away. I hide my head in my shoulders. I just want to shrivel up.

"Is he really that bad?" Sam coos as she finally finds a seat beside me, two large bags full to the brim with popcorn. Hannah follows close behind with her own bag.

"You brought popcorn?" I stare incredulously at her. I'm pretty sure my jaw just unhooked and fell off my face.

Sam just shrugs, adjusting into her seat, passing a bag to me.

I stare at it for a second. At this point, I would be internally debating with myself. But let's be honest; who would seriously say no to popcorn? So, _obviously_ , I take it and tuck it safely on my lap. This definitely makes up for the chewing gum. Barely.

"Fellas! Ladies! And Jesters of the court!" Matt grins as he takes the metaphorical stage and addresses the bleachers. "I'd like to present to you the first, annual Prom King games!"

The audience erupts with cheers. Even Sam whoops beside me, spilling some of her popcorn. I stare achingly at the poor pieces that scatter on the cold, concrete ground. Tears. Their fate will now succumb to being trampled on by some witless numbskull who has no heart for lost foods like these.

Donate $1 a month now to save helpless lives like this popcorn!

RIP.

But my eyes quickly flit up when I hear Matt introduce his opponent – Chris.

The bleachers chill with silence. "Woo! Go Chris!" Josh's lone voice cheers from the grass, watching Chris awkwardly pace across the field.

I can't help but grin. What? He's kind of contagious.

"Yeah!" My voice shouts before I can help it. Sam glances at me in surprise before laughing. I can hear the trickle of Hannah joining in with the cheering – though it's probably only because she wants to be on her big brother's side.

One by one, more people start clapping and cheering for Chris. And I suddenly realise that these are the outsiders. The people that just slip in and fade out. The people like me.

And, as Chris lifts his shoulders in triumph, confidence building in me, something finally clicks. He could actually do this. He could actually win Prom King.

Because when has there ever been a Prom _anything_ to represent the people? Yes, the popular ones might have the power. But they will always be outnumbered by the majority. The little ones like me.

Pride blooms in my chest. Chris glances up and catches my eye. I laugh giddily as the cheers take over, the majority louder than ever. He grins back.

But. You know. I'm totally still mad at him.

And then Matt calls out the yells are cut short. And Chris' face falls.

Because Matt has just announced the first challenge. An all-in-one relay marathon.

Whatever the hell _that_ is.

* * *

"Are you serious?" I stare blankly at Matt, only to be met with his ferociously popular grin. "I have to give _you_ a piggyback?"

He shrugs. "It's in the rules," he says plainly.

"Don't bullcrap me," I glare at him. " _You_ made the rules, dumbass. _You_ can change them."

He just chuckles at me. Seriously. I could kill him more than ever right now.

So, apparently, an all-in-one relay marathon involves partners. Because, apparently, potential prom kings need them. _Obviously._

As soon as Matt had announced that partners were needed for these _infamous_ relay marathons, a thousand eager hands shot up at once.

But the two knuckle-heads had both headed straight towards me; Matt striding and Chris hesitating and fumbling. Wow. All I ever wanted. Two guys fighting over me. How _original_.

But, of all the luck, Matt was the one who reached me first.

I would have blatantly said no – _duh!_ \- if it weren't for the eager eyes of my fellow crown-followers, finally seeing someone like them being noticed; 'making it big'. I grimaced, feeling a tug on my heart. I couldn't crush their hope as easily as I could Matt's. I was like their Katniss Everdeen – except with less blood and guts.

Though that could be arranged.

It also didn't help that Chris had given up so quickly – because I _totally_ would have said yes to him – and had then glanced desperately at the girl beside me; "Sam?"

She'd simply snorted at him, a quick answer to result in him being paired up with Hannah. Sam had whispered to me that they looked kind of cute – the _"glasses pair"_. I'd growled at her and she'd laughed back, flying her hands up in surrender.

"You know I'm just going to sabotage you, right?" I raise my eyebrow at Matt, hooking my hands at my hips. Matt has hidden us away in one of the changing rooms lining the court – which is basically a glorified shed. Football shirts hang from hooks like rotting rags. And there's a few ambiguous stains on the floor that I'm not at _all_ willing to investigating. And everything stinks of sweat. My nose wrinkles. Hasn't any of these jocks heard of _personal hygiene_.

He chuckles, simply scooping my hands away before I can even stop him. "Sure you will," he tuts sarcastically before pecking a quick, playful kiss on my cheek. I grimace at him and push away, my hand instinctively swiping away the remains of his saliva.

"Ew," I stick my tongue out at him.

He grins before ushering me out the door into the blazing cheers of the crowd. And the stench of my depleting self-respect.

Yay.


End file.
